La Vita Saporita

Here he is...

2012-12-15T01:31:00.001+01:00

I suppose I've kept the little monkey to myself long enough. For those who've been wondering whether we pulled a Brangelina, this should clear things up a bit...

There's been a development

2012-05-09T18:00:00.000+02:00

In the midst of the chaos that we've come to know as life, we've decided that it's time to share a secret we've been keeping.

For those of you who might be interested, details will follow as soon as I can collect my thoughts.

But in the meantime...

here's a [very little] hint:

It's been a while...

2012-02-22T16:42:00.001+01:00

Greetings everyone. As you may or nay mot have noticed, I've been off the grid for what seems like months...well actually, it has been months. There's so much going on I don't even know where to start. But as soon as I can get my head around it all I will attempt to collect my thoughts in some coherent order and fill you in. Promise.

In the meantime, just wanted to share this little splash of awesomeness and let you know that all is, indeed, well.

Very, very well.

Backyard Sunset

Life = Sorted.

Finally...

The right way, the wrong way & the American way

2011-07-04T19:30:00.007+02:00

My husband often tells me I'm stubborn. He also often tells me I'm American.

I often think he uses the two interchangeably.

In the spirit of being an all-American girl, I've been in search of a cocktail with which I can proudly raise my glass today to celebrate independence with my fellow Americans, both at home and abroad.

My libation of choice:

The Americano.

This fizzy refreshment is a variation on the Negroni, the classic Italian cocktail that has appeared more than once in a few of my infamous misadventures.

I think it quite befitting that my favorite cocktail can be made three different ways: the right way, the wrong way and the American way. As anyone who knows me well will tell you, I believe this applies to any commingling of spirits, alcoholic or otherwise.

As an expat in Europe I find myself in a great many discussions about cultural differences and the pros and cons of various approaches to things ranging from healthcare, social services and taxes to less politically-charged matters such as tipping and (what should be) the highly objective take-a-number system.

I certainly don't presume to tell anyone what is right or wrong (with the exception of the take-a-number system, which I firmly believe should entail some form of linear organization), but what I stand by most adamantly, what I defend most vociferously, is my fundamental right to choose.

This, my friends, is the true definition of independence.

It's the freedom to make your own decisions.
To choose your own adventures.
To excel or to fail in your endeavors.
To be all that you can be, whatever that might mean to you.
To take control of your destiny.
To arm yourself with information.
To transcend where you came from or who you were born to.
To follow your dreams, to change your fate, and to create your own happily-ever-after.

Happy Birthday America.
Right or wrong, I salute you.

The Americano

Originally dubbed the Milano-Turino for its two main ingredients, Campari from Milano and Cinzano (sweet vermouth) from Turin, this delicate drink was popularized by American tourists during prohibition and renamed as a compliment to the Americans...

When was the last time something like that happened in Europe?

Made with equal parts Campari and sweet vermouth, it's topped up with an indiscriminate amount of club soda so you can adjust the taste to your liking.

It can be further set apart from its Italian cousins by preparing it in a highball instead of an old-fashioned glass, and garnishing it with a lemon twist instead of an orange.

Personally, I like to get sassy and have both.

1 oz Campari

1 oz Sweet Vermouth

club soda

lemon twist or wedge

Fill your glass with ice and add the Campari and vermouth. My personal preference is Cinzano, but you an also use Martini & Rossi or Boissiere. If you're feeling adventurous and want to pop for the more expensive Carpano Antica, consider using a half ounce of that with a half ounce of one of the others if you find the herbal flavor overpowering.

Top it up with club soda, adding as much or as little as you like. If you happen to live in Europe where even liquor store clerks (and apparently some bartenders) haven't the slightest idea what "club soda" is, try asking for seltzer or carbonated water, NOT tonic.

Garnish with a lemon twist.

Or, if you'd rather have the orange slice, go ahead, knock yourself out. It's up to you. That's the beauty of the Americano.

Opening Pandora's Box

2011-06-29T10:46:00.006+02:00

I can't decide which I'm more excited about: the super-cool-new-iPhone-4-that-my-baby-got-for-me or all the ~~fun new~~ very practical apps that I can now ~~distract~~ ~~amuse~~ educate myself with.

My latest rabbit hole is Italian internet radio and automated music recommendation services. As a long-time fan of Pandora (and a never-will-be fan of Dutch radio), I was devastated the first time I tried to log in - all revved up and ready for an at-home DIY body-pump workout - and was denied access because apparently they haven't sorted out all this global licensing business. Bastards.

More importantly, I've been on a rabid search for new Italian music as I am in desperate need of some variety. Constantly listening to Italian songs is my feeble attempt to learn Italian through osmosis.

It's also my latest coping mechanism for not actually being there yet.

I blast Italian songs on my iTunes while I'm biking through the Dutch countryside, mentally transporting myself to Tuscany. Even when I'm in Italy, I love to walk around with my own soundtrack - makes it seem like I'm in a movie and has the added bonus of drowning out the cackle of obnoxious tourists.

According to iTunes, I've played songs fom Ligabue, Tiziano and Laura over 150 times. Each.

Grazie di cuore to Nicole at zoomata for popping my bubble and introducing me to Soundtracker, an internet radio/automated music recommendation service like Pandora that 1) doesn't hold the fact that I'm in Holland against me; 2) offers a lot more Italian music than Pandora did anyway; 3) has an English interface; and 4) is free. It's like it was custom-made just for people me who want to bring a little slice of il bel paese into their lives. Evivva!!!

So here I sit, still listening to Tiziano but also enjoying the musical stylings of Angela Tatangelo, Paolo Meneguzzi and Jovanotti while engaging in a futile search for an app that will do the laundry.

And as usual, my advanced A.D.D. turned this rabbit hole into a wormhole with countless tangential offshoots, prompting me to free-associate Soundtracker to Pandora to Pandoro, a traditional Veronese holiday cake.

Naturally, this inspired me to search for a recipe.

It's also inspired me to post our photos of Verona since the only ones I've shared so far are from the 5 minutes we rolled through during the Mille Miglia. So stay tuned.

Much gorgeousness (and a great recipe for linguine alle vongole) is coming soon...

Mille Miglia 2011: Brescia to Bologna

2011-06-20T15:12:00.006+02:00

We left Brescia at around 6:30pm with 130 Ferraris, en route to Bologna by way of Sirmione, Verona and a countless number of tiny villages far off the tourist path.

It was a genuine car safari.

Formerly a speed race on the narrow, tangential roads connecting Brescia to Rome, a tragic accident in 1957 that claimed the lives of two drives and 10 spectators changed the name of the game. The Mille Miglia has since evolved into a regularity race wherein competitors must complete various parts of the route within time limits that are assigned by the organization, as well as regularity stages.

As a mobile spectator (and often a roadside one as well) I very much appreciate being able to enjoy the beauty and majesty of these amazing cars without having to fear for my personal safety.

Though as a driver I do wish people weren't quite so comfortable spectating this close to the action. You just never know.

Another benefit to a regularity race is that you have a little more time to stop and enjoy pretty things.

Like this random field of poppies.

Admittedly, it was my husband who insisted on stopping to snap these shots.
He knew I would be mad later if we didn't.
He was right.

Sometimes you'll see something amazing at a random petrol station...

Sometimes not.

We hooked up with the Dutch guys we met last year on the side of the road.

Same place we found them last year - though this year their car was actually running.

We decided to skip Sirmione and headed towards Verona.

Unfortunately, this is all we managed to see of Verona in the 5 minutes it took us to drive through the parade route.

Luckily we went back a couple of weeks later to spend a full day there. But for now, there's no rest for the wicked.

Arrivederci Verona.

At another petrol station we met up with Team Lambo from last year's race.

Happy to see they traded up to this Porsche.

We did some spectating of our own, more listening to than watching the Ferraris trying to break the sound barrier.

One of the best things about the Mille Miglia is stopping at small places along the way that you would otherwise never find.

I've not the slightest idea where this was, but we enjoyed all we could eat and drink for 20 EUR a head. A bit sad that the drivers couldn't take full advantage, but the co-drivers (being finished driving for the night) definitely made up for it.

Plates upon plates of cheese and a constant pipeline of prosciutto, salami, mortadella and other assorted treats came in waves as this lovely lady kept us full of fresh, warm bread-like things.

Eventually we realized that it was 10:30 and we still had at least 2 hours until we reached Bologna. So we had one last round of these yummy lemon sorbetto drinky thingies and hit the road.

We arrived in Bologna sometime around 1am, only to find out that our hotel mistakenly cancelled our reservation. And during the busiest weekend of the year. Naturally.

Luckily they managed to make alternative arrangements with another hotel just off the autostrada so we were able to get to bed by 3. Which was a damn good thing since the call for wheels-rolling was at 7:30 the next morning.

A minor detail that I'm pretty sure was NOT previously discussed with Xander...

Roadside Lemon Sorbetto
Serves 8

I always wanted a lemonade stand. Though I must admit, this tasty grown-up beverage knocks the pants off that CountryTime crap we used to make when I was a kid.

4 cups prosecco, champagne or the sparkling wine of your choosing
2 pints frozen lemon sorbet

In a blender, combine half of the prosecco with half of the sorbet and blend just until the sorbet is soft but not liquefied. It's a slushy texture you're looking for, not a soup. Hence why I like to break it up into two batches to avoid over-mixing it into a fizzy syrup.

Pour into flutes or or parfait glasses (the prettier they are, the better it tastes) and serve immediately. Repeat with the remaining ingredients.

Cookie crisps, graham crackers or similar light treats make a nice accompaniment.

It's a lovely refreshment to serve after a summer dinner party or a picnic. Use ginger-ale in a non-alcoholic version for anyone who has to drive.

If you want to try making your own lemon sorbet, here's a super simple recipe:

Lemon Sorbet
from The Perfect Scoop by David Lebovitz, courtesy of this blog

2-1/2 cups water
1 cup sugar (if you prefer a sweeter sorbet, increase the sugar to 1 1/4 cups)
2 lemons
1 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice (about 6 lemons)

In a medium saucepan, combine 1/2 cup of the water and the sugar. Grate the zest of 2 lemons directly into the sauce. Heat, stirring frequently, until the sugar is completely dissolved. Remove the pan from the heat and add the remaining 2 cups of water. Then chill thoroughly in the refrigerator.

Stir the lemon juice into the chilled sugar syrup, then freeze the mixture in your ice cream maker.

Happy summer!

Mille Miglia 2011 Preview

2011-06-20T11:42:00.001+02:00

384 classic cars, 130 Ferraris, and 1000 miles from Brescia to Rome and back. Welcome to the 86th annual Mille Miglia, la corsa piu bella del mondo.

It's fitting that the worlds most beautiful race should take place in il bel paese - though I still don't get why it had to rain on them for 80 years straight before they figured out that May is a better month than April to host it, particularly when nearly half of the official race cars lack a roof and/or windshield. Sigh...such is life in Italy.

In any case, sometime in the middle of the night the boys arrived in Brescia: my husband and the X-men (Marnix and Xander). We were all moving pretty slowly the next morning and it took a little extra expresso to get us moving.

Eventually we worked our way to the city center where all 500 cars were gathered in the squares and all along the cobblestone streets. It's a connoisseur's wet dream.

We always start with the Ferrari's.

Then, onto the old timers.

The official race cars are all antiques 1927-1957,

the years when the Mile Miglia was still an official speed race.

I adore the Bugattis.

#22 - 1928 Bugatti Type 37A

#28 - 1926 Bugatti, Type 35T

But I'll always be a Porsche girl...

#215 - 1955 Porsche 356 1500 Speedster

#209 - 1954 Porsche 356 1500 Speedster

#299 - 1995 Porsche 550RS

Oh, who am I kidding?

I love 'em all.

#94 - 1937 BMW 328

#41 - 1934 Fiat Balilla 508S

#320 - 1955 Ferrari 500 Mondial

#97 - 1949 HWM Alta

Of course, no trip to Brescia would be complete without an Aperol spritz so we stopped for a lunch of pirlos, panini and people-watching.

On the way back to the cars we stopped at the Mercedes station.

It's been an amazing 125 years between this...

and this...

On the way back to our cars, we cheered on a few driving teams. I can't even begin to imagine spending 3 days and 1000 miles in these cramped quarters, sans a roof - or even a windshield.

#119 - 1949 Healey Silverstone, Christian Roncolato & Sabine Rinnerberger

#176 - 1952 Aston Martin DB# Team Car, Martin Melling & Tim Moore

As always, a beautiful table was waiting for us when we got home for dinner.

After dinner, we were off to the races...

Risotto, ripasso and the triumph of good over evil

2011-05-29T23:28:00.015+02:00

Fun things to do over Memorial Day weekend in Holland:

1. Walk through the neighborhood counting rose-bushes...

2. Have an impromptu dinner party with the FranKats...

3. Make pumpkin-parsley risotto...

4. Sample a flight of Valpolicella (starting with the 2008 Ripasso)...

5. Thoroughly enjoy the aforementioned risotto...

6. Stake out the kitchen to see who sneaks in to lick the pot...

7. Take cool pics of your friends making coffee...

8. Enjoy said coffee in the silliest cup you can find...

9. Watch good triumph over evil...

10. Hug your friends a lot and count your blessings.

Things not to do:

1. Paint your house the wrong color...

With regard to the latter, if you choose to ignore this sage advice and do it anyway, it helps to have an extremely good sense of humor and considerate friends who bring you apple flaps.

As for the rest, these things have my highest recommendation, with honors.

Risotto con Zucca (Pumpkin Risotto)
adapted from Amaretto, Apple Cake and Artichokes by Anna Del Conte
Serves 4

3 tablespoons (50g) butter or 1/2 cup olive oil
1-4 shallots (or 1 onion), chopped
2-3 cloves garlic, chopped
1/2 teaspoon sea salt
1/2 teaspoon sugar
1 small bunch Italian (flat) parsley, chopped
1-1/2 cups pumpkin, cubed (500g/1lb)
2 cups risotto rice (300g)
1 cup vino bianco (white wine)
5-6 cups (1.5L) vegetable broth
freshly ground pepper
1/2 cup grated parmesan, to serve

In a medium saucepan, heat the vegetable broth.

In a separate, heavy-bottomed saucepan, start by making your soffritto. This is the base for every good risotto. [Note to the Italian boys, there is an actual translation for soffritto - it means "underfried".] Heat the butter or olive oil over medium-high heat. Add the shallots (or onion) and the sea salt - this will help onion soften the onion without browning to keep the flavor delicate. Add the sugar and cook for 3-5 mins. Add the garlic and half the parsley and cook another 3-4 mins, stirring frequently.

Next, add the pumpkin and cook until fork-tender. This could take anywhere form 5-20 minutes, depending on the pumpkin. If it starts to stick, add a few spoons of stock to keep everything loose.

When you can cut through the pumpkin with the side of your wooden spoon, add the rice and saute for 1-2 minutes until the rice is well coated and slightly toasted.

When the rice is slightly translucent or spotted turn up the heat to high and stir for about 30 seconds to keep it from burning before adding the white wine - it should make that great sizzling sound and begin to evaporate immediately.

Then turn the heat back to medium and continue cooking (and stirring) until the wine has evaporated. Add enough stock to cover the rice completely and continue to cook, stirring often, until all the liquid is absorbed.

Add one cup at a time of the remaining stock, and keep stirring until it is absorbed again. It is this act of constant stirring that gives risotto its creamy texture. It is also one of the things that makes risotto such a great group activity, as it permits plenty of time to drink and gossip. Master this and you, too, can be a bona-fide Risotto Queen.

Repeat until the rice is al dente, tender but still very chewy. The consistency should be slightly liquid, somewhere between solid and soupy. Then season with a bit of pepper and check the salt.

Mix in half the parmesan and let sit for one minute (not much longer) to blend.

Spoon it into shallow bowls, sprinkle with remaining parsley and grated parmesan and enjoy immediately.

Note: If this isn't decadent enough for you, the original recipe calls for 150ml (about 1/8 pint) of heavy cream and a knob of butter to be mixed in with the parmesan just before serving. It was perfectly lovely (and light) without these, but feel free to indulge if you've done something extra good to deserve it.

All in good time

2011-05-26T17:33:00.007+02:00

I've been extremely antsy lately.

Last night I jumped on my bike and just started riding. I didn't know where I was going, but I was going to get there really fast.

I got lost. Well, as lost as one can get in Utrecht.

Actually, I knew where I was at all times: On the corner where the little calf jumps around the yard like a puppy. Past the house where the wild boar forages around the dandelion patch. Near that beautiful pair of horses who are always cast in the most perfect tree-filtered light. In some scary ghetto near the train station, literally on the wrong side of the tracks...

Yes, I always knew exactly where I was - I just had no idea where that was relative to anything else. But I kept riding. And shouting at the sky.

I wanted to exhaust myself. To ride until my legs turned to jelly and simply refused to support me anymore. To force myself into submission. So I would have to stop and just. be. still. Whether I liked it or not.

I'm certainly not complaining - no one loves globetrotting more than I do. But I suppose the downside to making 40 international trips over the past year is that we haven't really settled down long enough to decide where we're going to live. In the meantime, I haven't the slightest idea what I should be doing with myself. Should I be trying to make friends here? Find a job? Get my residency permit? Ship the rest of my shoes? Or is that all pointless if we really are moving soon? And if so, where are we going...?

These are just a few of the hundreds of rhetorical questions that I've been asking my husband with increasing frequency and decreasing patience. Thankfully, he is extremely understanding and has not (yet) chucked me into the canal.

I know that my restlessness is pointless. That there is a natural order to all things, that some take longer than others, and that the best things in life are worth waiting for.

And whenever I need reminding of this, I make a risotto.

There are a few secrets to a good risotto, but none so important as time. Anna del Conte, one of my favorite Italian food writers, insists that "risotto requires a generous amount of butter (and usually cheese] to achieve its lovely, creamy consistency." However, in an attempt to reduce the amount of butter and cheese I've been consuming (particularly since moving to Europe), and I can personally attest to some of the loveliest, creamiest risotto dishes being made without an ounce of either.

If you want to make a proper risotto - I'm talking about a truly transcendent bowl of warm, gooey deliciousness - you need to get comfortable in front of your stovetop. Contrary to popular belief, it is neither butter nor cheese that gives risotto it's creamy texture - it's the gentle action of continuous stirring that loosens the starch from the rice grains and releases them into the cooking liquid.

I've not the slightest idea whether substituting butter and cheese for stirring time would work. To be honest, it never occurred to me to try. Risotto is one of my guilty pleasures. The enjoyment of this dish lies not only in its divine texture or its ingredients, but in its making.

How often do we allow ourselves one uninterrupted hour of time to stop and think, to chat with a friend, to enjoy a glass of wine before dinner and flirt with our spouses the way we used to when we were trying to hard to impress them...

For me, it is the culinary equivalent of meditation - only when you're done, there is a kick-ass dinner waiting for you as a reward.

This one in particular set off a string of spontaneous F-bombs in our kitchen.
And I mean that in the best possible way.

Sun-Dried Tomato-Basil Risotto with Balsamic Vinegar
adapted from my friend Karie's recipe (thanks girl, we owe you one!)
Serves 4

5 cups vegetable broth
2 small tomatoes, peeled and chopped (about 1-1/2 cups)
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 yellow onion, finely chopped
2 cloves garlic, finely chopped or pressed
1-1/2 cups (250g) arborio rice
1 cup red wine
4-5 sun-dried tomatoes (about 3 oz), cut into bite size pieces
1-1/2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
3 tablespoons flat-leaf parsley, chopped
salt & pepper to taste
20 fresh basil leaves, cut into thin strips (chiffonade)
2 oz goat cheese, crumbled (optional)

Pour the veggie broth into a saucepan and add the chopped tomatoes. Bring to simmer and reduce to warm, but don't take it off the heat. It's important that the cooking liquid is always hot to facilitate the starch release.

While that's happening, warm the olive oil in a heavy-bottomed pot over medium heat. Add the onion with a teaspoon of salt - this will soften the onion and keep it from browning. Then add the garlic and saute until soft.

Next, add the rice and stir with a wooden spoon until the rice is thoroughly coated and becomes translucent. Nicely toasted rice is another secret to great risotto.

Add in a cup of red wine (and pour one for yourself while you're at it) and stir until the liquid is absorbed. Then add a cup of the broth and tomatoes and stir. And stir. And sip. And stir some more.

When the broth has been absorbed, add another cup and keep stirring until the liquid has again been absorbed. Feel free to pour yourself another glass of wine. Call your mom. Make out with your husband. But whatever you do, keep stirring.

Continue adding the broth a cup at a time. When the rice starts to soften (test a couple of grains after 2-3 cups), stir in the sun-dried tomatoes then continue adding rest of the broth (a cup at a time) and stir-stir-stirring until the rice is al dente (tender but slightly firm in center).

When the rice is nice and creamy, stir in the last cup of broth along with the balsamic vinegar. When these have been mostly absorbed, remove from heat, add the chopped parsley and season with salt and pepper to taste. The traditional texture is all'onda (wavy). It should spread out easily, but not have a watery perimeter so be sure not to cook the liquid out completely.

Risotto should be served and eaten immediately or it will continue to cook itself in its own heat which will dry it out and make the grains too soft.

Spoon onto individual plates or bowls, garnish with the basil chiffonade (and a few crumbles of goat cheese if you like) and serve with the remaining red wine.

It's something you just have to feel

2011-05-16T12:08:00.001+02:00

Swoon.
I love this video posted by Michelle at Bleeding Espresso featuring one of my favorite calciatori (footballers) and my grandfather's homeland. It actually gives me goosebumps - even though I can barley understand what he's saying...

I'm inexplicably overwhelmed with pride and nostalgia. Having never been there personally, I can't really explain why. I just am.

Makes me want to cook something rustic...

I've just returned from Italy where I spent 10 days improving my Italian (speaking and cooking) and my first experiment in deliciousness was Caponata, an Italian-ish version of ratatouille (the French Provençal stewed vegetable dish) and a nice twist on what basically amounts to sweet and sour vegetables.

There was something divinely earthy about making this provincial dish. In fact, the entire experience was a little otherworldly, from the walk to the market to select the vegetables to the clipping of fresh basil from the garden and perusing an old Italian cookbook while the most heavenly smells of garlic, onion and vinegar swirled in the crosswinds of the open kitchen door. Is it possible to be high on aromatics?

The sun was shining, the birds were signing, and the only language in the house was Italian. Heavenly, I tell you. Simply heavenly.

In Italy, a cookbook is regarded more as a collection of suggested guidelines rather than the explicit instructions I tend to follow to the letter. I like recipes. They provide a comforting sense of order to an otherwise chaotic world. And few things bum me out more than a botched meal.

But I am slowly learning how to color outside the lines and this particular dish is a perfect example of how imprecise cooking can be.

The original recipe was the traditional Sicilian version with celery and olives. We had neither, but decided that the bell peppers in the fridge would work nicely. It also called for half a glass of vinegar. What size glass? No clue. There were some pretty specific measurements given for some of the other ingredients, all in metric weights of course, but there was neither a scale nor a single measuring utensil anywhere in sight. Gadzooks.

I thought of all the times I have frustrated my husband to no end asking him to quantify the random ingredients he was throwing in a pot to clear out the fridge or the exact amount of time one should cook a pasta or risotto since one or two minutes on either side of perfect usually results in either too hard or too mushy. "I don't know, Amore," he says, trying not to sound completely exasperated, "until it's done. Don't try to measure it, it's something you just have to feel."

That's when it occurred to me that I wasn't here to learn how to follow Italian recipes. I was finally getting some insight into the elusive concept of kitchen intuition - that incredible gift of knowingness that allows some people to stumble into a kitchen and pull incredible gourmet feasts out of thin air. I'm a long way from that, but the leash that tethers me to my measuring cups is getting a little more slack.

I did my best to eyeball the quantities of everything that was going into the pot and to scribble down notes in between frantic bouts of chopping, stirring and quasi-measuring. But just to be sure, I cross-reference the quantities with my Italian cooking bible and I'll be damned - Mamma Eugenia was spot on. As always.

Caponata in Agrodolce
a mash-up from Le Ricette Regionali Italiane and The Silver Spoon
Serves 4-6

1-3/4 pounds (1kg) eggplant, diced or sliced in strips
1/2 cup (100g) olive oil
1 celery stalk chopped (apparently optional)
1 each red and yellow bell pepper, sliced in strips (our substitute for the celery)
1 onion, thinly sliced (we used two)
14oz (500g) ripe tomatoes, peeled and diced
1-1/2 teaspoons sugar
1/2 cup white wine vinegar (we used red, worked fine)
1 cup pitted olives (black or green)
3 tablespoons (50g) capers (we used a whole cup in lieu of the olives)
1 tablespoon each golden raisins and pine nuts (optional, but lovely)
Salt and pepper, to taste
Freshly torn basil leaves and grated parmesan, to garnish

Having never been much of an eggplant fan, I suspect it may be because I never knew how to prepare them properly. My diligent adherence to recipes sometimes fails when it calls for the extra effort of a seemingly extraneous step like "sweating" an eggplant. If you're using smaller eggplants you can probably get away with skipping this step (as confirmed by this major food publisher), however if you do opt for the larger ones or if you have time, I would definitely recommend it. I do it now regardless of the need. Partially because I just don't want to take any chances with my food, but mostly because I like to imagine my great-grandmother having done the same. What can I say, I'm a sucker for tradition.

So start by slicing the eggplant lengthwise and rubbing some salt into both sides of each piece. Place them vertically in a colander and let them stand. I prefer to leave them for an hour but 30 minutes should be enough. Rinse off the salt, pat them dry with paper towels and either dice them or cut them lengthwise in strips.

Heat 5 tablespoon of the oil in a large skillet, add the eggplant and cook over medium heat until they are golden (dorata). Meanwhile, heat the remaining oil in another skillet, add the celery (or bell peppers or both), onion, and tomatoes and cook over low heat for 10-15 minutes until nicely thickened and pulpy. Season with salt and pepper to taste. If you're pressed for time (or just don't want to wash an extra pot), you can also cook the eggplant together with the celery, onion and peppers as we did. Just wait until the veggies are cooked just enough to brighten their color before adding the tomatoes.

Next, stir in the sugar, vinegar, olives, capers (and if you're using them, throw in the pine nuts and raisins) and bring to a boil over low heat. Then add the eggplants and simmer for another 10 minutes.

Garnish with freshly torn basil leaves and a grating of parmesan. This also makes an excellent antipasto, served warm or cold.

Enjoy it with some crusty bread, a glass of wine. Yes, even if it's lunchtime.

Through the looking glass

2011-05-07T03:31:00.001+02:00

I met the most incredible man today.

Gianmaria Ciferri was an amateur painter when he stepped onto the international art scene in 1969. Unlike so many promising new artists who are launched out of pre-pubescent obscurity, Ciferri was already 44 years old. And for the past 42 years he has enjoyed a brilliantly successful second career as a world-reknowned artist.

After having met him, the photo above looks to me like the Gianni Ciferri who held whatever position he had in whatever company he worked for, while the Signor Ciferri of today reflects my stereotypical vision of a classical artist: blue-striped ascot and blue walking coat with an intense set of piercing blue eyes that confer an otherworldly aura, not so unlike a cross between this self-portrait of Vincent Van Gogh and Vincent Price.

I hope he wouldn't find that offensive. I mean it in the best possible way.

It was an amazing experience to just sit with a coffee at his dining table. To see his wife, Luciana, in a highly-stylized portrait that captures her beautifully, albeit esoterically. To be led through his home down the galleria, past countless pieces of priceless art scattered amongst everyday snapshots of their cats. To enter his small studio where the afternoon sun overexposed the white walls and organized chaos.

He has the most dignified air about him. The kind that seems to immediately identify a true artisan. Sophisticated. Cultured. Decisive. Knowing. Humbled by cataracts and an elegant walking-stick that belie a veritable force of nature.

In an instant I saw my life flash-forward to 2056, the year I would be his age.
I felt like I'd just stepped through the looking glass.

I worry sometimes that time is flying by too quickly, that all the fun I've been having has distracted me, and that my newfound appreciation for the role of a casalinga has dulled my ambition as a result. I should have been living in Italy for the past year by now. Fluent Italian diction should be rolling mellifluously off my tongue. I should have my personal administration in order, my taxes finished, my websites up and running, and my businesses fully-functional. At the very least, I should have the entirety of my belongings in one country - yet all that's managed to make it over the pond is 200 pounds worth of cookbooks and kitchen utensils.

In a futile attempt to regain control of my destiny I've been furiously running around like the White Rabbit: "I'm late! I'm late! For a very important date! No time to say hello, goodbye! I'm late! I'm late! I'm late!" Moving to Europe was supposed to force me to slow down, but I find myself scrambling more than ever.

My consciousness returned to the apocalyptic story Signor Ciferri was telling about his latest piece, an explosion of color featuring a pregnant woman, a child and a 7-headed dragon. Man, and I thought I was multi-tasking.

Then he showed us his other works: calm, serene, refined women who embody the same grace and elegance with which their creator carries himself. This, I decided, was a worthy aspiration.

There is something incredibly powerful, but also genuinely lovely, in moving slowly, deliberately, purposefully. Almost as lovely as the tortellini Luciana gave us to take home for dinner. Almost...

Luciana's Tortellini with Sage Butter Sauce
Serves 4

For the pasta:
3½ cups all-purpose flour
4 eggs, beaten
Salt

For the filling:
1-1/2 tablespoons unsalted butter
4 ounces pork loin, diced
2 ounces turkey breast, diced
4 ounces prosciutto, diced
4 ounces mortadella, diced
2 eggs
1 cup Parmigiano-Reggiano, freshly grated
Nutmeg
Salt and freshly ground pepper

For the sage butter sauce:
4 tablespoons butter
a handful of fresh sage leaves, chopped

If you've never made homemade pasta before, have no fear. It's really not that difficult, but it's a bitch to roll out the old-fashioned way. I recommend using a pasta machine but to be honest, you can also use store-bought pasta dough.

If you decide to go for it, Luci's "best guest" as to quantities are listed above.

Mound the flour and make a well in the center. Then add the 4 beaten eggs and a pinch of salt. Using a fork, work the eggs into the flour until a dough forms. Form the mixture into a ball, and knead it for 10 minutes, adding more flour if necessary. Wrap it in plastic, and set aside for 30 minutes. If you need a visual aid you can find about a million online. Here's a pretty good one.

This recipe includes turkey breast in the filling, one of the few variations accepted by tortellini purists. The filling can also be made a day ahead, covered well and kept in the refrigerator.

In a large skillet over medium heat, warm the butter. Add the pork loin and turkey breast, and sauté until cooked through, about 10 minutes.

Place the pork, turkey, prosciutto and mortadella in a food processor, and process until well-mixed but still slightly grainy. Place it all in a bowl, and add the 2 eggs, Parmigiano and a pinch of nutmeg. Season with salt and pepper to taste, mix well by hand, and set aside.

Using a pasta machine, roll out the dough until you reach the second-thinnest setting. Cut the pasta sheets into 1½-inch squares. Drop ½ teaspoon of the filling in the center of each square, brush the edges of the square with water, then fold opposite corners over to form a triangle. Press to seal the edges, then bring the opposite corners together, and pinch them to form the tortellini.

As you make them, arrange them on a floured surface so they don't stick together.

In a large pot, bring the stock to a boil. Season the stock with salt and pepper, add the tortellini and cook until done, about 2 minutes.

Meanwhile, in a small saucepan, melt the butter over medium heat and add the sage. When it starts bubbling up, it's done.

Ladle the tortellini into soup bowls and sprinkle with Parmigiano-Reggiano. Finish by pouring some of the sage-butter on each serving.

It's a delicate dish, well suited to be enjoyed slowly, deliberately and purposefully...

Buon appetito!

A little sun and salt

2011-04-30T09:48:00.023+02:00

Tomorrow will be the first anniversary of our engagement and if there's anything I find more surprising than how quickly time has passed, it would be the montage of my random recollections of that day.

If you were to ask a million people to free-associate the words "engagement" or "proposal" it is highly unlikely that you would hear a chorus of cows, neon orange scuba suit, or giant-teddy-bear-riding-shotgun-in-an-Ariel-Atom from any of them - save one if, by some bizarre coincidence, I happened to be in your sample pool.

Another unlikely association would be salt. But being the kind of girl who associates all major events in her life with some kind of taste, this is one of the things I remember the most vividly from that crazy cool day.

The actual proposal came quite unexpectedly one lazy afternoon whilst we enjoyed an impromptu picnic during the only 2-hour window of sunshine all weekend. Our "feast" consisted of one bottle of Veuve (inexplicably sporting the above-referenced scuba suit), half a salami, a block of cheese and some leftover tapenade from the day before, and the last remnants of a bag of garlic crostini leftover from God-knows-when.

It wasn't especially practical to eat out of the boot of the car...

...but luckily, we happened to have an emergency hairdryer box on hand.

This is just one of the many reasons why I love this man so.

That and the fact that many a would-be fiancé might have panic-paired a last-minute champagne proposal with a bunch of chocolates, sweets or something slightly less savory, but not mine. I may be a certified sugar-monkey, but when push comes to shove, I'll take a sassy salt-block over a sappy sugar-cube any day of the week. Besides, any more sweetness that day would have sent me straight into hyperglycemic shock.

Then again, truth be told, I was pretty salty myself that day - figuratively and literally.
If you're interested in the full story, you can read about it here.

Later that evening we met up with Francesco and Katrin - who, henceforth, will be affectionately referred to as the FranKat's - and the four of us continued celebrating all night at Algarve.

Named for a small region in Southern Portugal, Algarve is the only Portuguese restaurant in Utrecht and conveniently located around the corner between our respective houses. With a handful of tables in the front and one guy doing all the cooking in the back, it's one of those delightful little gems that really transports you and turns a simple dinner into a virtual holiday.

Always quick to befriend the waitstaff - after all, this person is responsible for my happiness for the next couple of hours - I inquired enthusiastically about the menu and was directed immediately to the specialty of the house: bacalhau.

Since the 16th century, bacalhau (known elsewhere as baccalà, bacalao, or just plain salt cod) has been the national dish of Portugal. The tradition is so strong there that dishes are categorized as fish, meat, poultry or bacalhau. Preparations vary from boiling, frying and grounding to grilling or baking. It is well documented that there is a different bacalhau recipe for every day of the year, and there are those who believe even that to be a gross underestimate.

Salt-cured and sun-dried, this unassuming, unsexy fish is even credited with making the Age of Discovery possible by providing the essential protein necessary for long sea voyages. It is also said that once you acquire a taste for it, you may be hooked for life.

Whew. That's one hell of a resume for what essentially amounts to fish jerky.
But damn was it good!

And what a perfectly appropriate metaphor for this day:

That the most average, ordinary, everyday things can become the impetus for a veritable renaissance with nothing more than a little sun and salt.

Bacalhau a Marinheiro (Sailors Bacalhau)
recipe adapted from AlgarveBuzz

This recipe requires a little forward planning if you're using traditional bacalhau, but it's really easy and very much worth it. Once desalted and rehydrated (check packaging instructions as soaking times will vary and some now come pre-soaked), the bacalhau can be cooked and either stored in the refrigerator for a day or two or frozen until you're ready for the deliciousness.

I will admit that salt-curing does impart a unique flavor that's pretty impossible to reproduce, but if you can't find any authentic bacalhau, fresh cod works just as well and it's likely that no one but you will know. If you're feeling ambitious, you can soak it overnight in a saltwater bath of 4 parts water to 1 part salt. Just be sure to cover it tightly or you'll need a boatload of baking soda to rectify the situation.

3 cups desalted bacalhau or fresh cod
1 cup milk + water
4 medium potatoes, cubed, shredded or julienned
3-4 tablespoons olive or canola oil
1/2 medium onion, finely chopped
2 egg yolks
1 cup full cream (light cream works well also)
3 tablespoons dijon mustard
salt & pepper
1/4 cup full-bodied white wine
1/2 cup breadcrumbs, lightly toasted
parmesan cheese or a cured sheep cheese
6 tablespoons cold butter (optional)

Whether you're using desalted bacalhau or fresh cod, place the whole portions in a pot and cover them completely with a water and milk bath. Let it boil for 15 minutes, at which point you will notice the cod puff up and the portions become much more flaky.

Drain the cod and let it cool. While its cooling, preheat your oven to 175 C/350 F, unless you're going to freeze or refrigerate it for later use.

When it's cool enough to handle, remove and discard the bones and skin. (Another merit of the fresh cod is that fillets are usually boneless and skinless.) Then you can either place the cod pieces in a food processor and pulse a few times to shred lightly, or you can shred it the "authentic" way: place the cod flakes in a cloth napkin, wrap it up and hit it a few times on your working surface. The water will drain off and the cod will be shredded. Just be sure to close the napkin well so as not to create a storm of random fish parts in your kitchen.

Next, peel and shred, cube or julienne the potatoes. Salt them lightly before frying - this will give them a much nicer flavor than salting them later - and fry them in the skillet until golden. Then drain them on absorbent paper and let them cool.

In the same skillet, melt 2 tablespoons of butter, add the chopped onion and sauté. Once they're transparent, combine with the shredded cod and potatoes in a large bowl.

In a smaller bowl, create a cream mixture by combining egg yolks, mustard, salt, pepper and cream. Blend together, then gently add in the wine and stir until well blended.

Pour the cream mixture over the cod mixture and gently fold until everything is one big, beautiful mess. Spoon into an oven-proof pan or individual quiche dishes and sprinkle with breadcrumbs and grated cheese. Dot with scattered bits of the remaining butter and bake for 15-20 minutes.

Garnish with lemon slices and olives if you like.

Serve hot with a leafy-green salad, seasoned with a vinaigrette type dressing (we made this one) and a bottle of your favorite white wine.

If you happen to have leftovers, it's even better the next day.

Whip it good

2011-04-15T10:39:00.003+02:00

There was a time, not so long ago, when I feared I would never be allowed to live in Italy for lack of the innate ability to make a proper cappuccino.

First of all, I use soy milk. That is cause enough for my residency permit to be revoked.

Italians use real, whole milk. Period.

People always come back telling everyone at home how great the coffee is in Italy. But it’s not just the coffee, it’s the milk too. Seriously.

If you order low-fat or soy-milk in the few commercialized coffee shops that even stock the stuff, they look at you like you’re some sort of bleeding heart, left-of-center liberal freak, obviously a tourist with no understanding of proper café culture.

Cappuccino literally means "small cap" and refers to the cap of frothed milk that is supposed to float airily atop a cup of espresso and steamed milk. Historically, my soy caps have been neither frothy nor airy and they sure as hell didn't float, choosing to dive and disperse themselves immediately into the coffee rather than standing proudly with a presence of their own.

Alas, I was certain that a soy-milk cappuccino (much like my visions of living in Italy) was nothing more than a wishful figment of my imagination, a dream that would forever elude me.

Was I the only person in the universe who couldn't make soy milk foam without a $10,000 espresso machine? Despite hundreds of attempts at homemade cappuccinos, I could never, EVER, get the foam going. Luckily I'm actually more of a cafe au lait kind of girl anyway, but cappuccino's are just so darn pretty...

I've mistakenly attributed some kind of self-righteous attitude to this inanimate beverage, deciding that it simply refuses to foam as part of a silent protest. It's all like, "Yeah that's right, you can whip me all you want but I'm not gonna dance for you. If you want pretty milk, go back to your cow, Sissy Girl!"

But take heart friends. I have just discovered that it is not the failings of the soy-milk so much as my own. The secret - as with any frothed milk - ain't nuthin' but time. And a little technique.

So if ever I have to plead my case before a jury of smarmy Italian baristas at the immigration office, I am now confident that I will triumph.

Here are a couple of tips for anyone else who mistakenly believes that they must suffer through a lifetime of unfestive looking coffee solely because they cannot (or will not) do dairy.

1) Get a battery-operated whip (and get your head of the gutter!) - if you are a habitual cappuccino addict, it will pay for itself in less than two trips to Starbucks. I like this one because it has a nice little storage case, and this one is just too cute not to have.

2) Don't be lazy - I had a bad habit of leaving the milk to heat unattended and trying to whip it at the last minute before the milk boiled over (and sometimes not even in time for that), expecting the foam to magically appear like so much fairy dust. But foam needs time to perk itself up - no different than the rest of us in the morning I suppose. So start whipping immediately.

3) Use medium heat, whip in circles and start at the the bottom. I used to skim the whipper on the top of the milk thinking that's where the foam should be (always looking for shortcuts I am), but apparently the magic is in the act of aerating the milk throughout.

4) Enjoy the process - unlike shots of espresso, cappuccino is meant to be savored. That includes the process of making it as well. If you're anything like me, your days are probably super busy so here is a perfect excuse to slow yourself down and stand still for at least 10 minutes in the morning. Take your time and zen yourself out, or (if you simply MUST multi-task) use this opportunity to collect your thoughts and organize your mental to-do list.

Either way, it's a lovely way to start the day...

Cappuccino Variations

Although ratios may vary to taste, a common recipe for a traditional 6 oz. cappuccino is: 1/3 espresso, 1/3 steamed milk, and 1/3 frothed milk. Purists consider this recipe complete as-is. Powdered cocoa or cinnamon may be sprinkled on top. As you can see, I'm as heavy-handed with the cinnamon sugar as I am with my prosecco.

If you allow the freshly frothed milk a moment to rest (and thus separate) you can layer the milk and espresso more easily. Pour your warm milk into the bottom third of the cup, then pour the espresso slowly into the steamed milk and spoon your fabulously frothed milk on top to fill cup. Done in this order, the espresso should settle between the milk and the foam.

Two variations are the Cappuccino Scuro (prepared with less milk and darker in color) and Cappuccino Chiaro (prepared with more milk - but less than a caffe latte - and lighter in color).

It is also growing more common in Italy to see a cappuccino made with only espresso and frothed milk. This is a Classic Cappuccino (1-1/2 oz. espresso topped with 1-1/2- 2 oz. foam) vs the Basic Cappuccino described above.

Gourmet Cappuccino Recipes
[read: excuses to imbibe first thing in the am]

WARNING: If you tend to make monstrous American-sized cappuccino's like mine, please take into consideration your morning activities (like driving, hang-gliding, or cutting your own bangs) before taking the liberty of pro-rating the liqueur quantities.

Caffe Conquistador
Basic Cappuccino with 1oz. of Kahlua topped with whipped cream and shaved chocolate.

Cappuccino Royale
Basic Cappuccino with 1 oz. of liqueur of your choice (classic Italian favorites include Grand Marnier, Frangelico, Amaretto, or any chocolate based liqueur) and top with whipped cream.

Caffe Napoleon
Basic Cappuccino with 1 oz. of cognac topped with whipped cream and shaved chocolate.

Bon Bon
Basic Cappuccino with 1 oz. chocolate mint liqueur topped with whipped cream, shaved white chocolate and a maraschino cherry. (Personally, I would use a brandied cherry - you can find a great recipe at the bottom of this post.)

Cappucino Cioccolocino
Basic Cappuccino topped with vanilla, chocolate or coffee ice cream.

Bottoms Up!

Just a spritz

2011-03-20T18:24:00.001+01:00

Flashback: September 1, 2007

I highly recommend sampling regional cocktail specialties everywhere you travel and selecting one as the signature drink for that trip. It's a lovely way to slip into the rhythm of the local environment and provides instant recall of fond holiday memories long after you've gone home.

Behold the Aperol Spritz,

known in Northern Italy as a Pirlo.

In the dialect of Brescia, the birthplace of both my husband and this yummy cocktail, the word "pirlo" means "fall" and refers to the way the Aperol falls into the wine when they're mixed.

For Jen and I it had a slightly less poetic etymology, derived from the consequences of one carafe too many.

This spritzer, made up of sparking wine (usually prosecco or Franciacorta), Aperol, and seltzer, is typically served as an aperitivo before meals to stimulate the appetite - as if our appetites needed further encouragement. It is, however, commonly acceptable to enjoy a pirlo at any hour. A permission we appreciated wholeheartedly.

A quintessentially Italian refreshment, the spritz is the perfect accompaniment to people-watching in piazzas. Simple yet sophisticated, it's far more festive than plain prosecco and more chic than a cliche Cosmopolitan. And for those who wish to channel Audrey Hepburn on a Roman Holiday, it's much safer than a vintage Vespa.

The are many versions of the spritz, most of which were born in the Northeastern provinces due to their proximity to the prosecco and Franciacorta wine regions. And although this tipple is native to Northern Italy, for me this specific iteration is a touchstone for our three magical days in the Eternal City - which we invoked with alarming frequency once we got back.

Below is a list of 6 variations on this classic Italian refreshment.
Salute!

REGIONAL ITALIAN SPRITZ RECIPES

In order to properly qualify as a Spritz, the following rules must be adhered to:

40% white wine (prosecco or franciacorta)
30% sparkling mineral water, preferably highly carbonated - NOT soda
30% from a range of liquors, depending on the region

Spritz Veneziano (Venice)
1/3 white wine
1/3 mineral water
1/3 Campari, Select or Aperol
a slice of orange if using Campari or Select.
if using Aperol, a slice of orange or green oilve (or both)

Spritz Trevigiano (Treviso)
5/10 prosecco
3/10 Aperol or Campari
2/10 mineral water
3/10 “whatever you like”
a green olive or a slice of orange

Spritz Padovano (Padova)
1/2 prosecco
1/2 of one or more Aperol, Bitter, Cynar, Campari, Gin.
an olive or a sliced of orange

Spritz Triestino (Trieste)
1/4 dry white wine
1/4 Campari
2/4 seltzer or mineral water
lemon rind

Spritz Udinese (Udine)
1/3 Verduzzo or Friulano (Tocai)
1/3 mineral water
1/3 Aperol or Campari
lemon rind

and last but not least,

Spritz Bresciano, a.k.a. il Pirlo (Brescia)

1/3 Prosecco or Brut
1/3 mineral water (very fizzy) or soda
1/3 Bitter Campari or Aperol
lots of ice and a slice of orange

Magic mushrooms and minor miracles: Part II

2011-03-19T23:59:00.002+01:00

Flashback: September 1, 2007 - 4:30am

Mom, you're going to hate reading this, but at least you know it has a happy ending.

When we last left off, our heroines had just polished off the most amazing truffled pasta and an incredible little dessert bearing the same name, and were about to fall victim to a human trafficking scam...

...at least those are the sane thoughts that finally worked their way into my mind as I closed the door of random-bar-man's car.

I don't know what possessed us to not take our own taxi - though the fact that we had absolutely no idea where we were going might have carried more weight then than it does in hindsight - but for some reason we agreed to drive with random-bar-man and hot-Italian-guy to a club in Trastevere along the Tiber River.

I verbalized my observation that this is exactly the kind of thing one reads in the papers after naive tourists are abducted in a foreign country that makes everyone back home wonder, "What the hell were they thinking??" To which Jen replied, "Well...the young guy seems nice and normal enough. He wouldn't go if he didn't think it was safe, right?"

Madonna mia.

What the hell were we thinking?

The movie Taken didn't come out until a couple of years later, but I seriously think watching it should be a pre-requisite for all female passport applications. Of the many miracles we were granted that night, living to tell the story was certainly one of them. I thank God on a fairly regular basis for this, and for all else that subsequently ensued.

Anyway, as we sat quietly in the back of random-bar-man's scary-mobile, I was distracted from the potential disaster at hand by the fact that I hadn't used the servizi since we left the restaurant hours ago. I had no idea where or how far the club was, but to make matters worse, in a spontaneous burst of national pride, our host decided to take us Gianicolo Hill to show us the most breathtaking views of Rome.

I might have been more enthusiastic if I wasn't so terrified that we were unwittingly being brought to a sacrificial altar in the woods.

As my companions marveled at the panoramic vistas, I set about on more pragmatic matters. Like searching frantically for a port-o-potty. Finding neither a port-o-potty nor a sacrificial altar, I decided to be grateful for the lesser of the two evils. Uncomfortable as it was, at least we no longer appeared to be in imminent danger of mysteriously disappearing into the autumn night.

Eventually we made our way back down the hill to the club. It was quite a cool scene actually. And whoever random-bar-man was, he was obviously well-connected and we were escorted past a long queue of drunken Romans directly to a VIP area in the center of the club, poolside.

Relieved that it looked like we would indeed survive our lapse of sense and sanity, I made a beeline for the nearest bathroom which, naturally, was tucked behind yet another impossibly long queue. Mr. Big (now upgraded from random-bar-man) came to my rescue and escorted me to the VIP facility which, I was traumatized to discover, was nothing more than an elevated private squat toilet, complete with a shiny stainless steel floor that sloped at a worrisome angle and a malfunctioning door lock.

Outstanding.

Did I mention I was wearing 4-inch YSL stilettos?

Anyway, after surviving that ordeal - which was only mildly less disturbing than the thought of being kidnapped, ritually sacrificed or sold as sex slaves - I retired to our swanky VIP area where my Butter Cookie had a Negroni waiting for me. Amen to that!

Unfortunately, Mr. Big was also waiting for me. So whilst Jen and hot-Italian-guy chatted each other up all night, I listened to Mr. Big wistfully tell me how much I reminded him of his late wife - though the only thing I could fathom us having in common was that we were both at least 25 years his junior. I'm quite certain I earned "Wingman of the Year" that night. But luckily, the Negroni's were flowing freely.

Sometime around 3am we were finally deposited back at our hotel, only to find it locked with a huge iron gate. Of course. After all, "this was a respectable hotel and what kind of guests would possibly need to gain entry at this hour?" chided the judgmental look on the face of the Mother-Superior who reluctantly let us in.

"Lucky ones," I thought to myself. "Really bloody lucky ones."

I counted miracles in lieu of sheep that night, every last one I could think of.
All but the one I hadn't even realized had happened yet...

Magic mushrooms and minor miracles: Part I

2011-03-19T23:45:00.001+01:00

Flashback: August 31, 2007, 11:45pm

There was much debate as to whether it would blaspheme that transcendent dish of trofie if we were to indulge in a final dessert course at Maccheroni - which would have been about our 7th. I was completely sated and would have been perfectly happy to slip into a food coma back at the hotel, but Jen was positively spellbound...

Seduced by the black magic, my little Butter Cookie was determined not to end the evening until we found another kind of tartufo: that which could only be found in the Piazza Navona at Tre Scalini.

Named for its resemblance to a black truffle, there are dozens of other restaurants with their own versions of this fabled dessert, but after having served what is dubbed as "the original black truffle" for the past 65 years, Tre Scalini has apparently mastered a legendary secret formula for these delectable balls of deliciousness.

How could I argue with that?

Despite the fact that it was only 400 meters away, the famed piazza somehow managed to elude us for an hour. But much like the truffle-hunting pigs of Provence, Jen would absolutely not give up until she'd found her prize. Unfortunately, unlike the farmers who accompany the pigs, I was hardly dressed appropriately in my 4-inch YSL stilettos.

Still, I managed to survive and when I finally hobbled through the right alleyway, we were rewarded by a gorgeous panorama of the piazza.

I swear I heard a choir of angels singing.

Even more rewarding was scoring a corner table at Tre Scalini where we promptly ordered the tartufo: chocolate-covered ice-cream bombs with whipped cream and a cherry center. Almost as promptly, two Roman guys descended like vultures, eyeing us in much the same way that we were eyeing our tartufi. We could decipher very little of what they were saying, save the requisite bella, principessa, and Madonna Mia! that all Italian men are trained from birth to bestow on gullible American tourists. But after a sleepless night followed by a 9-hour flight and nearly 17 hours of walking, I wasn't feeling terribly sociable and I just wanted to enjoy my tartufo in peace.

Enter yet another Italian guy. This one, in an attempt to be chivalrous, asked if the others were bothering us and said something in Italian that dispersed them rather quickly. Probably something about us expecting them to pay for their own coffees.

I wasn't immediately convinced that our hero was any more sincere than the others, but since his English was actually comprehensible, Jen invited him to join us. Apparently his linguistic prowess came from living and working in Holland for the past 10 years which, whilst good for his converational skills, I found terribly odd. I mean really, what kind of Italian voluntary leaves Italy to live in Holland of all places? Surely he must be some kind of deranged pot-smoking deviant in disguise. Or at the very least, have a severely warped sense of judgement.

As the bar began to close, we stood to part ways and he asked for our contact details - which, again, I found odd since he was only in town for a wedding that weekend. Still, I was more than happy to give him Jen's information so we could just go home.

But alas, there is no rest for the wicked. The bar owner, who had been sporadically chatting with us all evening, invited us to join him at an outdoor club along the river. I was dying to go to sleep, but it was Jen's first time in Rome and I just couldn't say no to the girl who always said, "Yes!" to life.

And so, we continued our adventure...but only after scooping up every last bite of that amazing tartufo.

If ever you find yourself in Rome, put it on your list of absofreakinlutely-must-do's.

Tartufo alla Tre Scalini
serves 8

Admittedly this is a total shot in the dark as the authentic Tre Scalini recipe is, indeed, a closely guarded secret. But after compiling the elements of various recipes based on my recollection of flavors that have haunted me for the past 5 years, I'm happy to say that this one is pretty damn close.

Of course, it's pretty hard to go wrong with ice-cream, chocolate and cherries...

3 cups chocolate ice cream, slightly softened
8 brandied cherries
1 pkg. semisweet chocolate chips, 12 oz.
1/2 cup butter, 1 stick
1-1/2 cups chocolate shavings
Freshly whipped cream, for serving

With a larger ice cream scoop, carve out 8 "strips" of chocolate ice cream and round them into snowballs, working a cherry into the center of each. Set them on a baking tray covered with wax paper and leave in the freezer for at least 30-60 minutes.

In the meantime, use the top of a double-boiler to melt the chocolate and butter together over hot (not boiling) water, stirring until blended. Allow to cool for 20 minutes.

Spread the chocolate shavings on a piece of wax paper. Then retrieve your ice-cream balls from the freezer, making sure they are firmly frozen. If they aren't, stick 'em back in until they are or you'll have a molten mess on your hands.

Spearing each ice-cream ball with a fork, quickly dip and roll it into the melted chocolate before rolling it in (or sprinkling it with) the chocolate shavings. Put it back on the wax paper and return to the freezer immediately.

After they are once again frozen firm, cover each of them securely with plastic wrap. These can be prepared 2 to 3 days earlier and stored in freezer. Remove from freezer 5 minutes before serving.

Serve with freshly whipped cream and a striped chocolate wafer stick.

Obviously there's no culinary chemistry here that will miraculously alter the flavors much from their original state so try to use the best quality ingredients you can find. Whatever you do, I beg of you: do NOT use those horrific maraschino cherries that they sell in jars at liquor stores. Their day-glo hue comes from artificial coloring only after they've been soaked in lye to remove all of their original cherry color and flavor. Ick.

Luckily, you can make delicious, homemade cocktail cherries in about 20 minutes.

Brandied Cherries
recipe courtesy of Sloshed

1-1/2 pounds dark, sweet cherries, pitted
scant 1/4 cup sugar
1/4 cup water
1/2 oz fresh lemon juice
1 small cinnamon stick
1/4 cup + 1/2 oz brandy

Combine the sugar, water, lemon juice, and cinnamon stick in a medium saucepan and bring to a boil. Add the cherries and simmer on medium-low for five minutes. Remove from heat, toss the cinnamon stick, and stir in the brandy. Allow to cool completely before placing in a jar.

That old black magic

2011-03-18T22:01:00.001+01:00

Flashback: August 31, 2007, 9:30pm

If hedonsim had a pasta equivalent, it would be trofie al tartufo nero.

That morning we had nixed the idea of visiting the Sistine Chapel. Both the thoughts of spending half of our last day in queues and waking up at an unholy hour to catch a private tour were enough to rationalize this quasi-blasphemous omission, despite reports its sheer magnificence often makes people weep. This later proved to be a pivotal decision.

We opted instead to enjoy our night out and the infamous plate-licking special at Maccheroni was next up on our agenda. I am happy to say, it absolutely lived up to the rave reviews it's been receiving for years. It was incredibly rich, making it impossible to eat quickly so we were forced to linger for hours and savor every gorgeous bite.

After we half a plate and a quartino or two under our belts (literally), we bordered on the obscene. Moaning softly, faces twisted passionately - if anyone saw us they might fear us in need of an exorcism. This was the ultimate in food porn.

At one point, in a fit of divine ecstasy, Jen suddenly exclaimed,

"F*k the Sistine Chapel, this trofie is making me weep!"

I wholeheartedly agreed and held my breath, waiting to be struck by lighting.

Several hours later, after polishing off two appetizers, a second entree and another quartino (or two), we came to the end. And although we couldn't bring ourselves to lick the plate outright (though at one point it was a serious consideration), we managed to scrape it spotless.

Tragically, since this trip occurred before I started obsessively photographing everything so I have no photos evidence of this testament to this near-holy creation. Then one day, whilst drunk-Googling for inspiration, I stumbled across this:

Tah-dah!!!

I was super psyched to find this photo on this travel blog, not only to offer up a bona-fide visual, but because it's comforting to know that in a world of ever-changing menus, there are still some places you can count on to deliver solid standbys. The trofie al tartufo nero has been on deck at Maccheroni at least since we were there in 2007 and was still there as recently as 2010. It's probably been on their menu since the beginning of time. And if there truly is a God, it will still be there when I go back.

Trofie is a traditional pasta similar to fusilli but smaller. Sometimes called trofiette, the thin, tight twists are perfect carriers for delicious clingy sauces like this one. It's pretty easy to find, but in a pinch, linguine or tagliatelle are good substitutes as well.

Although I failed to elicit the original recipe from the chef (leaving me yet another good reason to improve my Italian), I did find this one and I'm happy to say, it's as close as you can get without being there.

Black Truffle Sauce
Adapted from Chef Michael Mina, Aqua Restaurant, San Francisco
Yields about 2 cups

1 leek (white and pale green parts only), finely chopped
1-3/4 cups shallot, finely chopped
3 garlic cloves, finely chopped
2 cups dry white wine
2 large fresh thyme springs
1 oz preserved black truffles, finely chopped (here's a reasonably-priced resource)
4 cups chicken stock or low-sodium chicken broth
4 cups heavy cream
1/4 teaspoon black or white truffle oil (or to taste)

Wash chopped leek in a bowl of cold water and drain but don't pat dry. Put the leeks, shallot and garlic in a 4-qt heavy saucepan, cover and steam over low heat using only the water still clinging to the leeks. Stir occasionally until softened, about 6 minutes. Add wine, thyme and truffles and bring to a boil, uncovered until most of the liquid evaporates, about 12 minutes.

Add stock and boil for approximately 25 minutes or until reduced to about 2 cups. Stir in cream and simmer, stirring occasionally for about 40 minutes or until reduced to 2-3/4 cups. Pour mixture through a fine sieve into another saucepan, pressing on and discarding the solids. Whisk in truffle oil and season with salt and pepper.

Toss with fresh al dente trofie.

You might want to consider wearing a bib. I am so not kidding about the plate-licking. We may have refrained in the restaurant but at home, all bets are off.

Cappuccino e cornetto

2011-03-17T08:31:00.001+01:00

Flashback: August 31, 2007

We landed in Rome at 7am, having not slept a wink despite many well-intentioned recommendations to the contrary. But I mean really, WHO can fall asleep with the excitement of spending the next three days in Rome just lolling about one's head? Subsequently, we were exhausted upon arrival. Served us right. Fools.

Not surprisingly, our room wasn't quite ready - indeed, very few things are ready at 7am in Rome - so we set out in search of coffee. We asked the lady at the hotel reception where we might find a nice cafe to sit and have a coffee while we waited. She answered quickly in Italian and smiled half-heartedly before she walked away. I caught only a hint of what she said which, loosely translated and contextualized by her attitude, I took to mean something like, "There are no cafes open at this God-awful time, you clueless American tourist girls. Stop bothering me with your silly little questions. I am terribly busy looking fabulous."

A moment later, her co-worker appeared so we asked again and he confirmed, in English, that indeed most of the cafes did not open until 10. "OK," I said, with the eerie calm of a sociopath about to have a psychotic break, "how about this: did you have a cappuccino this morning before you came to work?" "Si signorina, of course!" "And where did you get this cappuccino?" "Oh, there is a small bar just around the corner..."

Perfetto.

When we walked in we were mesmerized by the scene: steam rising from multiple espresso machines, the gurgly sound of frothing milk, the clanking of cups on saucers and spoons stirring sugar, a mountain of fresh oranges yielding nice pulpy juice, lovely breakfast panini and pastries beckoning from the counter, and the steady buzz of Italians ordering each other around behind the bar. We swooned and christened this our base camp for the weekend.

Retreating to the small sidewalk tables, we relished our first authentic Roman breakfast: the classic cappuccino and cornetto. Not an especially noteworthy breakfast, but a memorable one nonetheless.

Perhaps it was the morning sun filtering through the trees, the clacking of stilettos as a pack of supermodel-esque women scurried by, or the joy of simply being in Italy with my partner in crime...whatever the reason, it was one of those perfect moments in life that feels like the happy ending of a Julia Roberts movie. I could almost see the credits scrolling across the sidewalk.

A good cappuccino and cornetto will forever bring me back to this moment.

Alas, I wish I could offer up the recipe for a perfect cornetto but I haven't found one.
Then again, I haven't really looked.

There's nothing particularly magical about a cornetto - even a really good one. For me, its merits are inextricably linked to the atmospheric details of a bustling breakfast bar. The kinds of details that I cannot recreate at home, nor would I want to.

It's one of those experiential treats that is simply, divinely and unequivocally Italian.

Far be it from me to mess with that.

And they're off

2011-03-16T15:37:00.001+01:00

Me & My Butter Cookie, August 30, 2007

As we settled into our seats, I went about the business of nesting with various lotions and potions and a healthy supply of herbal tea while Jen dutifully pulled out the stack of guidebooks and email suggestions she had been collecting for the past week.

With the precision of a tactical cartographer, she began strategically mapping out our weekend by cross-referencing all the places we were going to eat, what their specialties were and what important monuments were in the immediate vicinity. Away from the touristy restaurants near the Colosseum was a small local osteria with excellent pizza. The oldest gelateria in Rome was somewhere around the Trevi Fountain. A cafe at the Piazza Navona had the best tartufo in the city. A little hole-in-the-wall cafe around the corner from the Pantheon makes super-secret cappuccinos. And a restaurant offering a to-die-for dish of trofie that was purported to induce spontaneous bursts of plate-licking.

The level of preparation she invested in this gastronomical vision quest was amazing. Hell, if it were up to me, we would have just wandered into whatever cafe we happened to be passing by when we got hungry. That was the extent of my plan.

Although both approaches have their merits, in this particular case I must admit...her way turned out better.

I often muse at the fact that so many wonderful aspects of my life are a direct result of my Butter Cookie's purposeful meal planning, the most obvious being my present status as a happily married ex-pat, but not the least of which is a genuinely soulful appreciation for food.

To enjoy a good meal with someone like Jen is truly a pleasure and our three-day food fest was nothing short of a transcendent experience. Since then, food has inextricably worked its way into my fondest memories, with the tiniest inklings of certain tastes and smells spontaneously transporting me back to many magic moments in time.

For this reason, this blog is a bit of an homage to our friendship as well. A tribute to our shared passion for that plate of trofie that literally moved us to tears.

Of course, it's distinctly possible that the free-flowing vino da tavola may have exhorted some influence over those tears...

But I like to think it was the trofie.

The grand plan

2011-03-15T17:52:00.002+01:00

Flashback: August 25, 2007

So, now that the logistics were settled we needed a plan.

"Well alrighty, Little Miss HotShot," I thought to myself, "now what? Exactly what is it that you are so bloody eager to do in this city that you simply can't do at home?"

The answer came swiftly and quietly:

absolutely nothing.

The last thing I wanted to do for 3 days was run myself ragged all over town just to stand in queues with hoards of loud, sweaty tourists. I am not sympathetic to their complaints about Roman toilets nor can I comprehend why some of them religiously adhere to the notion that one's level of comfort is directly proportionate to the relative position of a given outfit on the continuum of fashion abominations.

Seriously people (you know who you are), think about it: if Italians can walk around on cobblestone streets, steep hills and narrow stairs for their entire lives without sporting Nikes, Birkenstocks or Crocs, you can probably manage it for a few days too.

But I digress...

What I really wanted to do was simply pass the time doing whatever it is that we would have been doing over the holiday weekend at home: enjoying each other's company sitting in cafes, shopping for things we can't afford, people-watching and gossiping over cappuccino, and consuming immoderate quantities of pizza, pasta and prosecco.

Nothing terribly exciting really, but for the fact that the pizzas would have those papery-thin yet impossibly flavorful wood-fired crusts, the pastas would be perfectly al dente with gorgeous sauces clinging to every delectable bite, the cappuccinos would have just the right amount of foam, the stuff we can't afford will at least be runway-worthy, and we would be people-watching in piazzas (with pirlos in hand) where the cacaphony of Italian chatter would be music to our ears and little Italian kids crying "Mamma! Mamma! Mamma!" would sound like singing cherubs, unlike the shrieking wombats that are indigenous to our home.

Most importantly, we would be doing all of the above in Italy.

At this point in my life I thought it was the closest I would ever get to experiencing an authentic slice of life in il bel paese. To enjoy the luxury of lazing about a cafe, lingering over coffee or a glass of wine, blissfully unconcerned with tour bus schedules or any other marker of time. To admire historic monuments from afar, perhaps recording a snapshot or two but absent an obsessive need to photograph every last doorknob. To casually wander past the grand buildings, the fountains, the narrow streets dotted with gelaterias and cafes, breathing in the majesty of this beautiful city.

To sit still and be quiet, letting its essence seep into my skin and marinate in my veins rather than chasing it all over town like a rabid paparazzo.

That was my grand plan.

Having lived in several versions of paradise from California to Thailand, I had no delusions about the realities of life in a place that naturally appears idyllic to anyone who is temporarily liberated from banal concerns like paying bills, going to work or doing laundry. But all those things were waiting for me back home and since none of them would have stopped me from enjoying a care-free holiday weekend in Chicago, I could confidently say that even if I did have such things to worry about here, I could just as easily shove them aside and enjoy three lazy days with a friend.

To this day, I can't think of a better way to spend a weekend in Rome...

Once upon a time...

2011-03-14T09:49:00.001+01:00

(August 19, 2007 to be exact)

...in a far-away land, a young urban Chicagoan had a meltdown.

Incensed that her then-current boyfriend was off visiting his family in Switzerland for the entirety of August whilst she had nothing equally fabulous on her holiday agenda, her insanely competitive ego went rogue and autonomously composed the following text:

"Anyone want to go to Paris or Rome for Labor Day?"

This S.O.S. was immediately disseminated to her gallivanting girl gang with the hopes that their fervent enthusiasm for spontaneous escapades might extend across the pond.

She didn't think for a moment that anyone would seriously consider dropping everything to pop over to Europe with ten days notice, but that was fine with her. She was used to traveling solo and of course, in her pathological bid for oneupmanship it would be much cooler (and far more mysterious) to go by herself anyway.

In the end, following many sincere expressions of interest and promises to check on flights, one person actually came through: her little Butter Cookie.

That would be Jen, the heroine of this particular tale...

Yes, that's right. My fairy tale starts with an awesome girlfriend rather than a boy. Following one of the all-time greatest and utterly bizarre first dates ever, Jen and I had been inseparable for the past 18 months. She was my rock. A co-conspirator and expert enabler whom I could always count on to say, "Yessss!"

Luckily, this trip was no exception.

Since we had both been to Paris within the last year - and because we share an insatiable obsession with all things Italian - we opted for Rome. Within 24 hours we had our flights booked and Jen scored us a wicked cool deal on a hotel.

We had to celebrate. At Quartino. With pizza.

A week later, we were on our way...

Pizza Quattro Stagioni (Four Seasons)

First of all, let me just say that real pizza is thin-crusted. I am passionately committed to this position and have, from time to time, considered starting a campaign to ban the use of the term "pizza" in relation to those crazy deep-dish pies that we make in Chicago. But at the moment my activist energy is being channeled elsewhere.

I offer up this recipe with the caveat that it is virtually impossible to reproduce in a home kitchen that which can only be borne of a brick oven. So if your kitchen-ego can handle that, go for it and have fun.

Two secrets to creating a great pizza, one with a well-crisped crust that finishes baking in the same time it takes the topping to cook, are intense heat (upwards of 800 degrees) and direct contact of the dough with the heat source.

Since most conventional ovens top out at a mere 500 degrees, the closest you can get to recreating this environment at home is to use a pizza stone by placing it in a cold oven (per the manufacturer's directions) and letting it preheat with the oven. I also recommend using a pizza peel - those wide wooden boards with the long handles that you always see hanging in pizzerias - to safely slide the pizza onto the stone.

I hope to master the art of dough-making one day, but thus far I've not made the attempt. If I were to try it, I would probably start with this recipe. In the meantime, I have pretty good luck with store-bought dough and have found the par-baked crusts from Fox and Obel to be highly successful in emergency situations.

Whatever you choose, the rest goes something like this:

1/2 cup tomato sauce or chopped canned tomatoes
3-4 marinated artichoke hearts, quartered
5-6 black olives packed in brine (you'll want the sweet variety)
1/2 cup finely sliced mushrooms
2 ounces finely sliced ham, shredded
1/4 pound shredded mozzarella
a handful or two of arugula (optional)

Spread the tomato and the mozzarella. Technically the other four toppings should each be housed in its own quarter of the pizza, but here is where I deviate from tradition as I prefer the Quartino's version with everything mixed together. Either way, drizzle with a few drops of olive oil and bake according to your dough instructions. If you like, throw some fresh arugula on top just before serving.

Best enjoyed on a summer patio with a good friend and a pirlo.

The luxury of hindsight

2011-03-13T07:18:00.004+01:00

I should have started this blog in 2007.

But back then I had no idea that the events that were about to unfold would change my life forever. I expected it to be a fun girls' weekend in Italy, no doubt full of stories worth telling, but at the time it was just another randomly-inspired freak-out trip.

Ok, in all honesty, it wasn't really that random. But more on that later...

I was going to date my posts as they occurred chronologically, in an effort to lend some structure and context to what would otherwise be a chaotic stream of consciousness that even those with a Ph.D in crazy-talk would find challenging to follow.

But stories are organic, living things. Over time, they change, adapt and evolve as we do, distilled in hindsight as the emotionally-biased perspectives of real-time slowly separate themselves from the raw truths that come to define our history.

So I think it's important to acknowledge if and when something is being written in retrospect with the luxuries of time gone by: wounds healed, laughter shared, lessons learned. And the all-important opportunity to implement revisionist history.

I'm back in Chicago for a couple of weeks to pack more of my stuff. I'm going back to Holland soon and this time, it's for good. Really. At least until summer...

Turns out Chicago isn't the only one having trouble letting go. Which is ironic because I've been trying to leave here for years.

After living in LA for 2 years following some hare-brained idea to go to law school (even though I had no desire to be a lawyer) I moved back to Chicago and immediately started working in Florida where I commuted every week for nearly 5 years. Two years ago I was planning to move to DC until I went to visit Tanya while she was studying Spanish in Spain. A month later I started taking Italian classes and made up my mind to move to Italy. Last year all that changed and I took a detour - a big one. This year I am a newly-wed expat sort-of living in Holland. Sheesh.

I don't really know where this story begins. In theory one could say that everything we've ever done leads us to this exact time and place in our lives. Actually, that proves itself up in practice as well. We are planning to be back in Rome for the upcoming Mille Miglia. On deck is a walk down memory lane.

With that, I invite you back to the beginning of this particular story:

Chicago, circa August 2007, and the random text that started it all.

"Anyone want to go to Paris or Rome for Labor Day?"

Thundersnow

2011-02-02T23:37:00.008+01:00

For years I have loyally defended Chicago against those who think we are insane for putting up with its crazy weather. In return, I have been spared from having to deal with the worst of it.

But now that I technically no longer live here, the flight that was to carry me to my new home in Europe has been grounded by the worst blizzard in nearly half a century. I am housebound with no phone or internet as all the electricity in the neighborhood seems to be concentrated in the snow lightning outside.

I love you, too, Chicago. But you can't keep me here forever. I promise I'll be back. But definitely, definitely not till summer.

A deafening thunder responds in the distance as gale force winds come shrieking across the plains of suburbia, rattling the entire house like a scene from a bad horror movie and scaring the living bejezus out of me. I swear I can hear these creepy demonic whispers through the walls ...

"You can't leave. We won't let you. You belong here."

As an eerie chill creeps up my spine, it dawns on me that this storm is the physical manifestation of everything I have been feeling - or should I say, trying not to feel - in these last weeks while I have been packing up to leave. A cold, dark, black hole of separation and loss looming in the distance, as if waiting - indeed demanding - to be recognized and duly respected.

I've moved many times, but this time it's for good. In all the excitement over my new life, I have not really had the time to mourn my old one. A rich, gratifying life full of incredible people and priceless memories. Of course I expected to miss certain people, places and things, but it never occurred to me that it would be this difficult to leave.

Alas, my mother-in-law is far more intuitive than I. She knew it immediately after being here for the wedding and meeting my family and friends. I have something very special here. Something that will not, cannot be replicated anywhere else in the world.

I am thrilled about my life in Europe, my amazing husband, my wonderful new friends, and all of the grand adventures that lie ahead for us all. But as I bid my family, my friends, and my fair city adieu, I will leave behind a part of my heart.

Buried here, under a beautiful pile of snow.

The tipping point

2011-01-14T04:34:00.003+01:00

It's 4am in Chicago. I can't sleep.
Jet lag really sucks.

It just occurred to me that in the few months we've been married I've been in Chicago almost half the time. I start to wonder if I still haven't fully comprehended the fact that I am, indeed, M-A-R-R-I-E-D. And if not, does that make me a bad wife?

I mean damn, it's a little early in the game to start racking up demerits already.

I stare out from a 23rd floor window at the black void of the lake and search for answers in the streetlights that freckle the park in braille. My eyes rest on the strong, stable skyline that has been the backbone of my existence for 40 years.

No matter how many times I've left to live or travel elsewhere, this has always been home. I could come back any time I wanted. Now, for the first time in my life, that isn't so.

Bloody hell.
What have I done?

In physics, a "tipping point" is the point at which an object is displaced from a state of stable equilibrium into a new, different state.

That could certainly describe several events of the past few years.

So I pause to identify that exact moment in time that changed everything. There is a plethora of obvious candidates: our wedding day, the day(s) we got engaged, our reunion in Milan two years after our first meeting in Rome, or perhaps the night I stood under the moon at San Galgano and I decided that I wanted to live in Italy...

Auspicious as these events may have been, I'm not sure any of them propelled me into a wholly different state. Different countries perhaps (bad pun intended), but that state of stable equilibrium - my sense of balance and order, a conscious awareness of my relative position to all things - that had followed me all over the world.

Ironically, I wasn't the least bit nervous about getting married. My husband is the most amazingly perfect partner that I could ever invent for myself. My last thought the night before the wedding was that I'll never get to sleep on my side of the bed again, but that seemed like a small price to pay for happily ever after.

But not being able to fly home whenever the hell I feel like it? Damn. That honestly never crossed my mind. Nor did it occur to me that I would find it this unsettling.

As I sit here looking down on the world below, I am overcome by a sudden attack of vertigo as I realize that for the past several months (maybe even the past several years) I've been standing on this precipice, postponing the inevitable moment when I would have to leave the nest (for good this time) and dive into the mysterious ether that is to be the next phase of my life.

Whether I'm ready or not, it's time. This is the tipping point.

No resolutions, no regrets

2011-01-07T12:03:00.009+01:00

If you're still in the market for a new year's resolution, this is a pretty damn good one.

As 2010 drew to a close I was overwhelmed with the realization that I could spend the entirety of 2011 counting the blessings I was graced with in the past year alone. After asking myself, "What did I do to deserve all this?" and struggling to come up with a valid answer (despite the fact that it was meant to be a rhetorical question), I posed this not-so-rhetorical challenge: "What am I going to do to deserve all this?"

I immediately set about listing all the good deeds and positive actions that I intend to undertake in the coming months and by 12:05am on January 1st, the clean slate I was granted at midnight was already impossibly full. Best of intentions notwithstanding, I can confidently forecast without a shadow of a doubt that, as in each year prior to the one that lies ahead, I will fall woefully short of my overly ambitious aspirations. But that certainly won't stop me from trying. Each day, each moment, is a new opportunity.

So this year, rather than scrapping my resolutions when they prove to be more difficult than they sounded whilst under the spell of sky lanterns, fire twirlers and far too much Prosecco, I will merely park them on a shelf for a while and focus on living up to this simple yet powerful statement:

"Do not let this universe regret you."

I was going to offer my version of what this mantra means to me, but I decided that my personal take on it is relatively unimportant to anyone but me. So I will leave it here now and let it stand on its own, to be interpreted by anyone who stumbles across this in whatever way speaks most authentically to you. If you care to share your thoughts on it, please do.

Happy New Year Everyone!